Blair
Bile rises in my throat as Denver climbs into the chute. It doesn’t matter that I grew up here, that I’ve watched rodeos hundreds of times, or that I used to be sitting atop his bucking chute when he rode. The stress of watching anybody willingly put themselves in danger wears on my heart a little bit, but I can’t deny that my anxiety’s skyrocketing now. Seeping into every muscle, ligament, fiber of my being. It’s different watching him.
Licking my lips, I wait with bated breath for the nod. For the release of the unruly bronc. The gate’s flung open and Denver’s feet are up, dulled spurs hitting above the shoulder blades, marking out his legal ride. For a qualified ride, he has to exit the chute in this position, and hold there until the front hooves hit the ground for the first time. Once he’s marked out, the eight seconds are about showmanship just as much as staying in the saddle. And, fuck, Denver Wells has always been great at putting on a show.
One second. His form is perfect—heels firmly held high, arm unmoving, ass barely leaving the saddle. So much better than I remember him riding as a kid.
Two seconds. His heels drag down the horse’s side with impeccable timing, before shooting back up to the shoulders.
Three seconds. The horse turns in my direction. The quiet corner of the arena where I’ve been strategically hidden, avoiding locals. Avoiding him.
Four seconds. I swear his eyes meet mine, though I know there’s no way he’s paying attention to anything except staying on the bucking animal. Tell that to my skipped heartbeat, though.
Five seconds. The horse veers right midair, nearly tossing Denver out of the saddle with the unexpected, jarring turn. Suddenly, he’s struggling to keep his seat, death grip on the bronc rein, free arm fighting for balance. His sand-colored cowboy hat flies in the opposite direction, floating through the air before settling on the ground.
Six seconds. Another sporadic turn, directly toward the fence. Denver is flung off the horse’s side, his back and shoulders slamming into the metal rails, head ringing against a sponsorship sign from Al’s Hardware. He hits the ground with a cloud of dust and emphatic silence from the crowd.
My stomach drops, breathing stops. Stillness hangs over the arena—both the event clock and the overall concept of time stopping as everyone waits for him to get up. Seconds pass, the pickup men get the bronc safely down the alley, and Denver’s still motionless.
Slipping between the rails, I sprint through the thick arena sand, every muscle in my legs burning as I fight to get to him. I throw myself down to the sun-warmed earth, and my right hand clutches the identification around my neck.
“I’m the medic. Stop touching him,” I yell at the cowboys attempting to jostle him back to life. “You want to be useful? Go grab the neck collar and spine board.”
Two things I would’ve brought out myself, had I been in the right mindset at the time of the accident. Had I not been so caught off guard by something as stupid as my high school ex-boyfriend looking in my direction. I’m supposed to be a trained medical professional, not a silly, hormonal teenager. This is why providing medical care to family or friends was against policy at my old job. Except now I’m a nurse practitioner in my tiny hometown, and a policy like that would mean being unable to help pretty much everybody.
“Denver.” His name leaves my dry mouth in a whisper. Then a second time as a plea. “Denver. Denny.”
His long dark eyelashes flutter slowly over his cheek, Adam’s apple bobbing with a hard swallow. “Bear?” he whispers.
“Hey. Don’t move, okay?” I place my hand on his tanned forearm to keep him still, catching a glimpse in my periphery of a cowboy running toward us with the equipment I asked for. “How are you feeling?”
“Never been better,” he says with a wincing smile as I delicately slip the collar around his neck.
“Yeah, I’m sure.” I stare at him, telling myself I’m only watching for abnormal pupil dilation. But I’m drowning in the molasses of his rich eyes—struggling to pull myself out of the hold they’ve always had over me. A brown hue so many overlook, assuming they’re plain. Except his are flecked with amber and gold, an array of color only visible when you’re close enough to kiss him. “All right, let’s get you into the ambulance and head to Sheridan.”
I motion at the cowboys to grab the spine board, and together we shift him onto it. He’s not a lanky, thin teenage boy anymore, and it takes four of them to carry him out of the arena. Always the life of the party, Denver gives the crowd a small fist pump, which makes them wild. Raucous cheers ring out, and the announcer broadcasts well wishes for the hometown cowboy over the loudspeaker. A smile lights Denver’s face, despite his glassy eyes giving away the intensity of his pain.
By the time we reach the rodeo ambulance, he’s laughing with the guys about having a vendetta against Al from Al’s Hardware now. They load him up while I check in with the other medical volunteer, then I slip onto the small bench seat next to Denver, fighting the urge to look into his eyes again.
It’s a retired ambulance—significantly older than I am, and lacking most current medical equipment. But at least it provides a safe way to transport the many rodeo injuries to the nearest hospital an hour away. The heavy back doors shut with a thud and, less than a minute later, we’re pulling out of the parking lot.
I didn’t anticipate being alone with my ex-boyfriend when I signed up to provide medical assistance at the local rodeo. Thank God for the paperwork keeping me occupied. And for the potholed road which requires me to take my time, struggling to keep my printing legible as the rickety vehicle careens down the highway away from Wells Canyon. Without something to keep my hands and mind busy, I might make a stupid choice, like trying to talk to the man lying in front ofme.
He looks older, but so many years have passed, it makes sense. When was the last time I saw him? A cursory glance at the café when I was home for Christmas a few years ago, I think. He didn’t see me.
When was the last time he saw me? How much older do I look?
For a long while, the only sounds are rattling equipment and our driver, Johnny, singing along to a Creedence Clearwater Revival cassette tape. The way his voice cracks during “Fortunate Son” is very unfortunate , but I welcome the distraction.
Denver’s eyes are boring into the top of my skull long before he speaks. “So, you’re back in town.”
“Seems so.”
“Since when?”
I shrug one shoulder. “Few weeks.”
“For how long?”
I sigh. “Don’t know.”
I didn’t want to move back to my hometown in the first place. In fact, I’ve avoided Wells Canyon as much as humanly possible for the last decade. But now, thinking about leaving means thinking about my mom’s Alzheimer’s disease progressing beyond what my dad and I can handle ourselves. It means thinking about moving her into long-term care or hospice. So, as much as I don’t want to be here, I can’t stand the thought of what the end date of my stay means.
“Are you capable of answering with more than two-word sentences?”
I glance up to catch him smirking at me. I tap the pen against my clipboard and consider telling him I have much more than two words I could say to him. There are so many unorganized thoughts in my brain, I don’t know where to begin.
“Yeah, no .” I count the words on my fingers, shaking my head as I return to the incident report on my lap. Filling out the paperwork only serves as a reminder that I used to know every single detail about this boy. Now my knowledge is restricted to full name, birth date, and blood type.
“Is your girlfriend your emergency contact?”
“So you are capable of more than two words. I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Does the blonde you were with behind the chutes know that?”
“ Hart, were you spying on me?” He flashes a lopsided grin, complete with his famous dimples. Dimples that stole my heart so many years ago. A smile I refuse to let envelop me again. “Nah, I ended things with her after my ride today.”
“You…broke up? After your ride?” I squint at him, looking for any indication that he’s suffering a brain hemorrhage. “You definitely need a CT scan when we get to the hospital, because I haven’t left you alone since you hit the ground. When did you have time to break up between then and now? I think you’re confused.”
“Not confused, and we didn’t break up because we weren’t actually together. Colt handed me my wallet and phone before you whisked me away in this dilapidated hunk of metal.” He holds up the phone and wallet, trying to disguise the pain he’s clearly feeling in his shoulder. “I sent her a text while you were busy ignoring me. Terrible bedside manner, by the way.”
Some things, like the flirtatious teasing, seemingly never change. Other things, like the fuckboy attitude, are painfully new to me. Of course, I’ve heard snippets about his dating life since I moved away. It’s a small town—everyone is dying to let me know what my ex-boyfriend has been up to whenever I come home to visit. As if I give a shit. It’s been almost fourteen years, for God’s sake.
“Wow, dumping her over text is a dick move.”
His nose scrunches and his head rocks side-to-side as much as the neck brace allows, like he’s weighing my words. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”
“Or you’re concussed and making poor choices.”
“Never thought this clearly in my whole life, Hart.” He winks.
Jesus Christ, he is a total douche now.
“Anyway, is your ex -girlfriend your emergency contact?”
“Nah, Red is. Usually he’s with me at rodeos, but he’s a little preoccupied these days.”
“At least one of you grew up,” I mutter under my breath, pulling my phone out to text Red.
“Overrated…growing up, I mean. I’m happy for him and Cass—don’t get me wrong. Hazel’s adorable, and Red’s the happiest I’ve ever seen him. But I don’t want that.”
An involuntary puff of air leaves my nostrils, and I do my best to play it off as a sniffle by running a knuckle across the tip of my nose. My phone buzzes and I glance down at the bright screen. “Well, Red’s busy with the baby, but he says Austin will come pick you up when the hospital discharges you.”
“You mean I don’t get to ride all the way back to Wells Canyon on this uncomfortable-as-fuck gurney?”
“Fortunately, no.” I tap my fingernails against the clipboard, checking my watch for the fortieth time. I swear this drive is taking significantly longer than usual.
“You could ride home with us, if you don’t want to be trapped with Mr. CCR.” He hooks his thumb in Johnny’s direction, who’s currently banging out a drum solo on the steering wheel. No, I don’t want to spend another full hour listening to his singing, but I’ll take that over another hour with Denver Wells. “Plus, you’d be saving me from a lecture. Austin’s gonna want to skin me for this.”
“You earned that lecture fair and square.”
He groans. “I miss when you used to bat your eyelashes to get me out of trouble.”
The corner of my lip ticks upward reflexively. God, I used to do that all the time. When I was a teenager hanging around the ranch, Grandpa Wells and Bennett both treated me so much like the daughter neither of them had. Which meant I got away with murder and, because Denver was always the one with me, he got away with everything, too.
“I can’t, anyway. I need to get back right away,” I say.
I promised Dad I would be home by dinner, because Mom’s condition always worsens in the evenings. Early-onset Alzheimer’s disease at just shy of fifty-nine years old. Something had been off for a long time before my dad insisted she see a doctor, and I kick myself daily for not being around more often to notice the signs. Not that it would help with a fatal disease. But I could have been here to help sooner. To spend more time with her. On the days when I really feel like wallowing in a pit of depression, I find myself wishing I’d never left town to begin with.
The clearing of a throat brings me out of my stupor. Denver raises an eyebrow, eyes locked on mine. “I said , what’s the rush? The rodeo will be long over by the time you’re back.”
I stare back, narrowing my gaze. “I…uh, need to be around in case some intoxicated cowboys get hurt at the barn dance.”
He seems to accept that answer, sucking his lips in for a moment of thought. The ambulance slows to a stop at a red light. Finally, we made it to Sheridan.
Rattling over a speed bump as we turn into the hospital emergency parking lot, Denver clears his throat. “Aren’t you curious about why I ended shit with her?”
“Not in the slightest,” I lie.
“Yeah? I guess you probably know why, anyway.”
Because he’s a fuckboy looking for his next conquest, is my best guess. Hit by a wave of claustrophobia, I frantically grasp the back door handles, needing out of this personal hell on wheels. I expected to grapple with mixed emotions about moving back to my hometown— into my childhood bedroom, no less —but not about him. I didn’t anticipate his smug smile to send blood rushing up my chest and cheeks. I didn’t anticipate Denver fucking Wells.